


How it should have gone

by wickwackity



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Angst, I am literally incapable of writing happy stan I’m SORRY, I did this for an English project, figured I’d post it here
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 11:08:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickwackity/pseuds/wickwackity
Summary: I absolutely refuse to acknowledge how King got the Losers out of the sewers so I rewrote it
Kudos: 2





	How it should have gone

**Author's Note:**

> An English project I hope y’all enjoy!

Getting lost in the sewers after defeating an all powerful, murderous clown, was not on Stan’s list of favorite things. The Losers are beaten, bloody, and only able to keep themselves upright with the adrenaline still pulsing through their veins. Stan could see that Richie, who would normally be cracking a joke about the groups’ torn up clothes, was dragging his feet as he silently walked through the maze-like tunnels. The others weren’t doing so well either.  
He could feel their exhaustion from where he walked in the back. He looked to Beverley, who was holding her bleeding arm tightly to her chest, and felt a pang of guilt. If he had been more useful, none of them would have been as hurt. Instead, he had stood there, holding a pipe, watching as his friends attacked the beast. Stan had wanted to help, he really did, but the deep rooted fear of dirtiness kept him glued to where he stood. Even Eddie, the hypochondriac that he was, with a broken arm, hadn’t hesitated to jump to his friends aid. 

Stan stared down at his hands as he felt the beginnings of tears form in his eyes. Through blurry eyes, he grimaced as he noticed just how dirty his hands were. He had managed to push past the dirty feeling so far, but as soon as he saw his hands, which were covered in god knows what, he felt the familiar compulsion to tug at his curls. There was nowhere near to get clean, no shower, no bathroom, no anything. Everything was dirty down here, and they were lost! His fingers itched to tug. Just a few times and Stan would feel better, just a few times would be ok. He looked up quickly to make sure no one else was watching, they didn’t like it when he pulled at his hair, before he reached towards his scalp and made seven quick, even, tugs. But his hair - god, his hair - was worse off than his hands were! It was sticky with sweat, dust coated every curl, and there was something that made parts of it slimy, which only made Stan feel worse. 

He could feel his breath quickening, and knew he had to do something before someone noticed. He didn’t want his friends to worry, not after everything that has happened. Stan has to be ok. He hears his words before he recognizes that they’re coming from him, the soft mumbling of birds. 

“Akepa, Loon, Razorbill, Ivory Gull, Hawfinch, Takahe. Akepa, Loon, Razorbill, Ivory Gull, Hawfinch, Takahe. Akepa, Loon, Razorbill-“

“Stan? Is that you?” His head snaps up to attention, trying to find the source of the voice. ‘It’s Bill’, he thinks. Stan’s feet stop moving him forward, and he’s stuck again, caught with nowhere to hide. He didn’t finish his words, he’s still not clean. He’s got to finish, otherwise something bad is going to happen. He doesn’t know what, but it’ll be something horrible. Maybe IT will come back for them. Maybe something worse than IT. Was there anything worse than IT? He didn’t know, didn’t care. ‘I’ve got to finish the words.’ He starts again. “Akepa, Loon, Razorbill, Ivory Gull, Hawfinch-“

Something touches his shoulder and its dirty, dirty, dirty. His eyes fearfully lock with those which own the hand, and he realizes that it’s Mike. Which should be comforting, but he still hasn’t finished and Mike is dirty too and now there are more hands on him and it’s too much.  
He can’t breathe, his hands claw at his throat in a desperate attempt to open his airway. Stan can feel his friends’ eyes on him as they surround him. He thinks he hears someone say something - maybe to him, maybe not - a zipper opens, and something wet is rubbing on his face and hands. The familiar smell of disinfectant wipes fills his nostrils, and the relief he feels is almost instantaneous. Stan feels multiple hands using wipes to clean off his face and hands, which cannot compare to the feeling of showering and a good hand wash, but it’s better than nothing. His hands are pried away from his throat by Bill, Stan assumes, which are then wiped down like his face. As his breathing slows down enough to a manageable level - still not in a steady beat, but it’s doubtful that anyone is calm enough to have a low heart rate now - Stan cracks open his eyes, preparing himself for the inevitable disappointed looks that should be sitting upon his friends’ faces. 

To Stan’s surprise, the most prevalent expressions are that of concern and worry. Beverly is holding his head in her hands as she wipes off the grime and dirt that cakes the skin of his nose. The bite marks on the side of his face don’t stop bleeding, and the wipes burn, but he appreciates it. Their eyes meet, and she gives him a soft, reassuring smile. He doesn’t have the energy to return a grin fueled by compassion, but he hopes the head nod he offers her comes across as a thank you. He looks to his other friends, who are still huddled around Stan’s slightly shaking form, and he sees their eyes watching him. None with ill intent, as Mike and Bill are each still holding a hand despite them being as clean as they could get them with the wipes, and as Stan is about to thank them for dealing with his issues, a hand claps him in the back. He turns to see who it was, and it’s Richie who is standing there, goofy smile and all - although it seemed somewhat forced, no one was going to point that out. 

“Don’t even think about apologizing, Stan the man! I can speak for all of us losers when I say that you are not burdening us. Besides, we were the ones who forced you to come down here in the first place!” Stan could feel the slight tremble in Richie’s hands as he mentions the sewers, remembering that they have been trapped down here. Stan, still recovering from the fact that Richie had so accurately predicted what he was going to say - he had always been good about reading emotions, but Stan had usually tried to remain stoic, never being subjected to Richie’s empathic skills - felt the need to deny their guiltiness. 

“You may have brought me down here, but you gave me an out. Which I decided not to take. Besides, I didn’t do anything helpful. I stood, watching my friends fight an evil clown, holding a pipe but not using it. It was useless to bring me along, and now I’m dragging everyone down again.” The beginnings of tears started welling in Stan’s eyes again, but he refused to let himself cry. Instead, he hung his head low, low enough his friends could not see his eyes. A voice in his head screamed at him for being such a helpless child. Stan was just useless, useless, useless. Stan shook his hands free from Mike and Bill’s grip, the scrapes that littered his palms burning slightly from the chemicals in the disinfectant. He desperately wanted to rub away the tears that were creeping down his face, despite him trying to will them away, but he knew it would only bring more attention to it. Stan attempts to get rid of the need to sniffle, his nose itching for relief. He so desperately wants to be held by his friends, wanting to collapse into their arms, knowing that, no matter how heavy his heart, no matter the height of the fall, they would be there to catch him and put him back together. The need to be surrounded by his friends causes Stan to cry out, finally giving in to the weight of his grief. His hands reach his face, digging his palms into his eyes. His knees grow weak, wanting to buckle under themselves. 

Eddie, Stan thinks, is the first one to come to him. The smaller boy wraps his arms around his chest, burying his face in Stan’s grimy, disgusting shirt. The rest follow soon after, with Beverly and Ben to his left, Mike and Bill on his right, and Richie holding onto him from the back. He feels the warmth of their bodies, the comfort of being surrounded by his family - their bond with each other far more familial than just friendship, Stan admits to himself, no longer keeping them an arms length away - and Stan is overwhelmed with feelings of love and contentment.  
Stan worms his arms around as many of them as he can, bringing them as close as possible. His tears have stopped coming from a place of darkness, instead filled with relief. He takes deep breaths through his nose, letting more air into his lungs as he calms down. A small smile works its way across his face. Stan is safe here. Safe with them. They end up standing there for hours, it seems. Enjoying each other’s embrace, and the comfort that came with being close to one another. It seemed as if everyone had taken a collective sigh of relief. Ben pulled away with a start, disrupting the peace, with a giddy grin upon his face.

“Hey guys? I think remember where we took the wrong turn now.”


End file.
